


I Don't Do Chocolates, I Do Flowers

by Schwa_E



Series: Florist Sherlock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, John is a slow texter, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft Is An Ass, Sherlock is a gay and sad florist, Sherlock is oblivious, accidentally became a Valentine's Day thing too, as always, like always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4614999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwa_E/pseuds/Schwa_E
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a sad, gay florist who meets John the day before Valentine's Day. Mycroft pops in for a visit. He's an ass, John defends Sherlock, Sherlock is an ass back. Gays on Valentine's Day with flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Do Chocolates, I Do Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theofficialsherlockholmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theofficialsherlockholmes/gifts).



The day had been far too long, far too long for it to only been a quarter past noon. The orders had been endless, it seemed, and there had been a shipment that come in two days early that had caused an extreme lack of sleep on Sherlock’s part. Nothing unusual, of course, just an inconvenience. 

“Such a stupid holiday,” Sherlock muttered to himself as he worked on a custom bridal bouquet that must be done by the end of the day, “Who would want to be married on bloody Valentine’s Day?” Normally Sherlock was more excited for the holiday. Not for the romance, of course not. It was the busiest day of the year for his business, and with the proper amount of roses that just so happened to be bought out on the day from most of the other shops, and enough convincing on price (since it is a lot harder to grow flowers in the middle of the damned winter), Sherlock would make quite the profit. That money would be put to his shop, making necessary upgrades to certain things and repairs in his own flat. 

Weddings are a pointless ordeal to pledge oneself to one other for the rest of their life in front of family and close friends. Most people value Valentine’s Day over going to a wedding, it’s ridiculous. Not to mention the bride doesn’t even love her fiancé. 

The little ting of the bell to signify the door opening brought a sigh from Sherlock’s lips and he closed his eyes. If it was that woman again about the fucking bouquet he was going to scream. Thankfully, when Sherlock turned away from his project he did not see the wife to be, but rather a tall, lean black man with a desperate look in his eyes as he looked around the shop. 

Just arrived from the airport, surprise visit to his boyfriend who he hasn’t seen in eight? No, nine, months. Came on a whim, has no clue what to get his boyfriend for lack of time.

“Welcome Sir,” Sherlock said, plastering a smile on his face as he stepped around the counter and wiped his hands on his apron. He gave a slight shiver from the cold air that wafted in from the outside before he stood in front of the man from about five feet away. “You’re looking for roses, I’m sure. For your boyfriend then? I can help you, right this way,” he said, walking over a few aisles to where he kept his roses.

“How did yo-“

“I observed it. Don’t worry, I’m not stalking anyone. Do you want my help then?” Sherlock asked, slightly impatient with the man already.

“I uh- yes, please. Are you Sherlock Holmes then?” the man asked, following Sherlock with a slightly worried expression and a bit of interest.

“Of course I am Sherlock Holmes, I wouldn’t leave my shop in anyone else’s hands, especially for Valentine’s Day. I take tremendous pride in my work, and I wouldn’t let someone else take credit for it.”

“Ah, okay,” the man said quietly, “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Victor, I uh- I need flowers for my boyfriend, like you said. I’m going to propose tomorrow, you see, and I want everything to be perfect.” They came to a stop in front of an aisle full off an array of different colored roses. “I know the color of roses have special meanings, and the last place I went to couldn’t tell me what those were. Can you, Mister Holmes?”

The small smirk that appeared on Sherlock’s lips was genuine, and he nodded. “Of course, he said, “Bear with me, it’s a bit of a long explanation. Red is for love, obviously, beauty, courage and respect. White is for innocence and purity. Pink is for appreciation and happiness, so you’ll want to avoid pink for romance. Many people don’t do that, and it’s a bit of an annoyance. Yellow-“ he stopped, mid speech when the door opened again. It was lunch hour for most, so he would be getting a lot of customers in soon. “Just back here,” he called to the customer, “I’ll be with you in a moment.” He didn’t receive a response, but a few moments later a short blond man walked over, smiling politely at them.   
“Take your time,” he said, “I’m in no rush.”

Military, injured, just invalided from Iraq or Afghanistan, looking for a flatmate, psychosomatic limp, single, doesn’t have a date. What on earth could he possibly want?

“As I was saying,” Sherlock said, returning his attention to Trevor, was it? “Yellow for joy or friendship. Yellow with red tips for falling in love. Orange is desire, peach is for appreciation and modesty. Coral for desire. Lavender or purple is for ‘love at first sight’ or enchantment. Orange for fascination. And finally blue is for ‘the unattainable, the impossible.’” From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see the blond man walk off, just out of his line of sight without having to turn to look.

“I think that purple would do quite nicely, if you would,” Victor said with a smile, walking down the aisle to the more colored roses. He picked up a bouquet, turning to smile at the other man.

As Sherlock turned around, he caught sight of the blond man, and couldn’t help but smile. This one would be fun, maybe he could make his day a little less boring. “I’ll just ring you up then,” he said to Victor, leading him to the counter. This time of year he charged thirty five percent more for all his flowers, but this man seemed too genuine. From what Sherlock was observing, this man clearly was in love. Odd, it was something Sherlock always craved on some level, but busied himself with work rather than to actually try and find himself a boyfriend. Not that anyone would be interested in him anyways, he was a bit intolerable. “Sixteen quid,” he said softly, smiling at the man. 

“Are you sure?” Victor asked, “These are really nice, high quality. How can you afford to run such low prices?”

“I charge highly for weddings. I find them a bit redundant, and the more aggravating and difficult the customer, the more I charge,” he explained, typing up a receipt for the man.

“Thank you, so much. That’s very nice of you,” he said, handing over a twenty pound note, “Keep the change, you deserve it. Have a nice day.” He took his receipt and nodded at the man once more before turning on his toe to leave. “And have a happy Valentine’s!”

Sherlock gave a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Fools in love, it’s amazing. Out of all the awful things in the world, some people still manage to find people that they enjoy. It’s odd,” he mused, looking over to the blond man. “Name’s Sherlock Holmes. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John smiled, watching the other man leave. Sherlock’s words rang through his head for a few moments and he blinked, trying to comprehend what he meant. “Uh- excuse me?”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock repeated, hopping up to sit on the counter, “You’ve just been invalided home from somewhere. You’re tan that doesn’t go above your wrist says that you weren’t on holiday. The way you hold yourself says military, as does your haircut. You’re well educated, your hand is steady despite the fact that you’re under stress, probably because I know a great deal about you but not your name. That shows you’re a doctor. Army doctor. You’re limping but you don’t act like it bothers you, like you’ve forgotten. Your therapist thinks that your limp is psychosomatic, quite right, I’m afraid. You weren’t shot in the leg, no. But you were shot. I’m Sherlock Holmes, people consult me about what flowers they want for certain occasions, and I just so happen to be very good at what I do. So, Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock smirked. He loved this part. Watching people internally panic at what he knows. Just after, they would insult him and tell him to “piss off” before asking for him to help them. Sherlock truly did love his job in a way. 

“Afghanistan,” John said quietly after several long moments, staring at Sherlock with his jaw dropped. “That was brilliant,” he said.

“Really?” Sherlock asked, confusion laced in his voice. This was new.

“Yes, utterly amazing!”

“That’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock said.

John cocked his head to the side, curious as to what Sherlock meant. “What do people usually say then?”

“’Piss off,’” Sherlock said with a chuckle, smiling at the other. That got a hearty laugh from the other man, and Sherlock was struck by a sudden wave of awe. The other man was hardly remarkable, completely ordinary, yet here Sherlock was, hardly keeping himself from gushing at the rather attractive stranger. 

“I heard some of your conversation with that man earlier. You seem to know a lot about roses.”

“Yes, and flowers seem to be the only thing Sherlock here is knowledgeable about,” came a cool voice, “God forbid he use his so called ‘talent’ for something useful, like being a detective or a government employee.”

“Piss off Mycroft,” Sherlock practically growled. How had he not hear the door open? “Amazing timing, as always. Will you be actually buying anything today or are you here just to patronize me and annoy me until murdering you becomes a wonderful idea?” Turning his back to his older brother, he walked around the counter, making a point of seeming busy with the bridal bouquet he has been working on. 

“Am I missing something here?” John asked, waving between the two.

“Mycroft here is my brother, and a bloody prat, as you could imagine. He doesn’t approve of my line of work,” Sherlock said, not once questioning why exactly he was telling a stranger this. 

“When we were younger he wanted to be a pirate. At least then he would be doing something worthwhile,” the elder Holmes said, distain clear in his voice. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock hissed, clutching the stem of a rose hard enough to snap it. “Can I help you buy something and leave, or shall I just ban you from my shop once again?”

“Just because you don’t approve of your brother’s choices with his occupation doesn’t mean it’s not worthwhile,” John said, stepped forward and glaring at the other a tad, “I may not know either of you in the slightest, but if your brother enjoys his work, why the hell are you judging him for that?”

Sherlock smirked triumphantly at Mycroft, folding his arms over his chest. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Mycroft looked between the two men, taken aback that John would so quickly defend his little brother. “I need a bouquet of roses. I don’t care what they cost, I need them quickly.”

“I’ll get them when I get them. Until then, why don’t you shove that lovely umbrella of yours somewhere where the sun doesn’t shine, brother dear?” Sherlock said as sarcastically as possible. 

“Charming,” Mycroft said, shaking his head. He tapped the end of his umbrella on the floor, and otherwise the room was silent for a full minute. Finally, Sherlock sighed and left his work in progress, walking past Mycroft. He gave John a shy smile, walking by him to grab a cheap bouquet. He walked back to the counter, all but slamming the flowers on the table. 

“That’ll be six hundred quid,” he said in all seriousness, looking at Mycroft expectantly. The taller man glared pointedly at Sherlock, pulling his card from his wallet and sliding it to Sherlock. “Thank you sir,” Sherlock said cheerfully, sliding the card before handing it back to Mycroft, and then the flowers. “Now get out.”

“He’s always insufferable,” Mycroft said off handedly to John before turning to leave. “Be sure to give mother a call, would you? Not like you have any plans.”

“I’ll call her and tell her you’re a prat. I’ve already sent her flowers. It’s sad that you actually wonder why I am her favorite,” Sherlock muttered sarcastically, shaking his head. “And tell Detective Inspector Lestrade that I need to have a word with him.”

“Absolutely not,” were the last words Mycroft said before he left, a gust of cold wind blowing through the door as the “Ice Man” left. Sherlock thought it was rather fitting.

“Now that I have dealt with my annoying brother, how can I help you?” he asked, picking up the roses for the bouquet he was working on and fit them together within. He could alter it later. 

“I’m not actually shopping for anyone, just curious. I’ve walked by your shop a few times and your flowers are gorgeous,” John said, scratching the back of his neck with a slight nervous stammer.

Now, for the record, Sherlock Holmes does not blush, ever. And If anyone had said that John’s compliment, no matter how many other’s had said it to him, had made him blush, he would deny it (and he would be lying).

“Thank you. I grow them myself.” That was the stupidest possible thing you could’ve said, you idiot. “I mean that I own this show and I tend to all the flowers myself. So I do grow them myself. Sorry, um- Thank you.”

John chuckles, looking at his shoes. He felt like a teenager. “You’re welcome. You seem to know your facts, and everything about me,” he said, looking around the shop to distract himself. 

“I don’t know, I just observe,” Sherlock said, walking around the counter. He stuck his hand out, small smile gracing his lips. “Sherlock Holmes, consulting florist.”

“John Watson, former army doctor,” he said, taking Sherlock’s hand and shaking it.

Firm hand shake. Small but strong hands. Lovely eyes, sand blond hair. Stop biting your lip and let go of his hand. 

“So tell me John,” Sherlock said, taking a small step back, “Why is an attractive man like you not buying anyone flowers for Valentine’s Day?” 

“I actually am going to. I wasn’t until just a moment ago. You won’t charge me six hundred quid though, right?”

This earned a laugh from Sherlock and the man shook his head, but he couldn’t deny the disappointment that sank through his chest and to his stomach. “No, no. Of course not.” He hurried around John and back to the rose aisle. “I’m sure you heard most of my explanation earlier, and I will help you in any possible way I can.”

“Which color is your favorite?” John asked when he caught up with Sherlock, gesturing to the roses, “I’m bloody awful at choosing anything.”

“The white are my favorites,” Sherlock said, “They’re so pure, it’s gorgeous. It reminds me of snow, not that I need a reminder this time of year. It’s youthful, exciting. Means promise of something amazing to come. The peach are also one of my favorites. It reminds me of France. I went there a lot as a child, and it was always so beautiful, so colorful.” Sherlock smiled shyly. He didn’t share things about himself very often, especially with strangers. “It’s a rather dumb reason to like them, but I think red is too common and ordinary. Romantic, yes, but overused.”

John nodded, licking his lips before reaching forward. He grabbed a peach bouquet, probably the nicest ones Sherlock had at the moment, and then reached for a white bouquet. “I’ll take these.”

Sherlock nodded, taking the flowers from John. “Of course. I’ll check you out,” he said, going back to the counter. He looked over the flowers. Whoever John was giving these to was very lucky, he decided. “It’ll be twenty quid,” he said quietly, setting them in a bag. 

“How much is it really?” John asked with a smile, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. When Sherlock insisted it was only twenty pounds, he pulled out the cash and handed it over, and then another twenty quid for the tips. “To actually cover the cost,” John said, “Are you going to be working tomorrow?”

“Yes, until noon. I open early on Valentine’s Day,” Sherlock explained, smiling gently, “You really didn’t have to tip me John. I’ve gotten all the money I need from Mycroft.”

“Please, it’s the least I could do for such gorgeous flowers.” John rubbed the back of his neck again, smiling sheepishly. “I should be going. Happy Valentine’s, Sherlock Holmes,” he said, shaking his hand once more before leaving the shop. 

Sherlock had wished John a happy Valentine’s as well, fighting the urge to ask him to stay. Once the man was gone, Sherlock let out a sad sigh and returned to the damned bridal bouquet. He helped several other customers throughout the day, dealing with the annoying bride to be. He closed late, staying for two more hours to water his plants before bundling up in his coat and going home. He had to admit, Valentine’s Day was never easy, being alone when your job is to help people in love buy flowers for their loves. He didn’t like to dwell on it often, but the appearance of John Watson had shaken him. John was different, he didn’t hate Sherlock from the instant that he opened his mouth. He seemed to enjoy his presence, as odd as it was, and Sherlock couldn’t help but feel like he missed an opportunity, and it upset him. With that in mind, he settled down to sleep after an impossibly long day from work.

The next morning Sherlock walked to his shop, rather bitter. He was trying to distance himself from Valentine’s and all of the happy couples, but it seemed everyone had someone except for him. Even bloody Mycroft had a date.

Halfway to work, Sherlock made a mental note to buy a new pair of boots, seeing as his were currently soaking from walking in the snow and ice. When he finally reached his shop, a small smile stretched across his lips. Sitting on his doorstep was a bouquet of roses in a clear glass vase, peach and white roses combined. Sherlock lifted the vase, heart skipping a beat as he pulled a note from amongst the roses, along with a small heart shaped box with what Sherlock assumed were chocolates. His name was written in clear print on the outside, and Sherlock unlocked his shop and got ready for the day before he paid any more mind to it. 

“John Watson, you insanely brilliant man,” he whispered to himself as he flipped the letter open.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, you are one of the most gorgeous and most brilliant men I have ever met, and I only knew you for twenty minutes. You amazed me, and I am still in shock as I write this. I realize now how obvious I had been when I bought the roses, and I am both embarrassed and I don’t really care. I’m not very good with my words, but if you still don’t have any plans for Valentine’s, and you would like some company, I would love to take you out. If not, that is fine, I’ll be sure to leave you be.   
Yours, John”

 

Sherlock reread the message several times, grinning like an idiot. At the bottom was John’s mobile number. Sherlock scrambled to find his phone within one of the pockets of his coat, muttering curses under his breath. Eventually the device fell from the fabric prison after Sherlock shook it, and Sherlock snatched it off the floor and texted John.

[6:57 am] I don’t do chocolates, I do flowers. SH

[7:04 am] I’m assuming this is Sherlock. I wasn’t sure if you liked chocolate or not, but I know for a fact that you love those colors of roses. I’m smart like that. JW

[7:05 am] The roses are indeed lovely, although I am curious as to how you figured that. Of course, you can tell me that over dinner at eight tonight? SH

[7:11 am] You are far too smart and gorgeous to be smooth as well. Shall I pick you up at your shop? JW

[7:12 am] Yes, I’ll make reservations at a little Italian restaurant. You’ll love it. SH

[7:22 am] It’s a date. JW

[7:24 am] Yes, it is. SH

Maybe Valentine’s Day was better than Sherlock had previously thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Gift for a friend.  
> This is such shit and I don't even care.


End file.
